


Safety Net

by Hestia01



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Babyfic, Family, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-08
Updated: 2014-03-08
Packaged: 2018-01-14 23:58:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1283590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hestia01/pseuds/Hestia01
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John receive a special delivery dropped on their doorstep...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Safety Net

**Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes, et al, are property of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, to whom we are all eternally grateful.**

**Author's Note: Alternate Universe, diverging after Hounds of Baskerville. One minor second season spoiler, but nothing earth-shattering.**

 

It was a sulky sort of night at Baker Street. The heavy silence was broken only by the clacking of Watson's computer keyboard and the occasional gunshot from a slightly disturbed consulting detective. To the latter's credit, he'd been hitting the yellow smiley face on the wall with greater accuracy than he previously did. He'd even taken the trouble to apply fresh plaster and wallpaper to the room's other battle wounds. That had been quite a project for the two of them; they'd ended up being just as smeared in plaster and glue and stuck all over with bits of decorative paper as the wall itself! Both of them had been pleased that there was still enough of the original pattern left in storage, as they both found they quite liked it.

All in all, it was business as usual. John cast his flatmate a sidelong smirk as he recounted their latest adventure together, recalling parts in which even the great Sherlock Holmes had been at a momentary loss. Seeing him be the clueless one for once made it well worth the chase he'd led them on! As much as John enjoyed these quiet nights at home, he had to admit to himself that there was nothing he'd rather be doing than following Sherlock on his wild investigations. He wrapped up his blog post and smiled contently at the screen, already watching the page counter tick over. They had amassed quite a following in the time they'd been working together. While it was of no interest to the chief personality in the stories, it pleased Watson to no end that so many people were reading his blog and finding their help through it.

His gaze drifted over to the pouting man on the sofa, wondering, as always, the source of his current bad mood. They were usually brought on through lack of work. His mind demanded puzzles to decrypt, problems to solve! His mighty brain did not do well to sit idle. Inactivity was the death of him.

 

There was a knock at the door downstairs, causing both men to look more alert while they tried to listen...

Mrs. Hudson let the stranger in, accustomed to her tenants receiving strange visitors at all sorts of odd hours. This one came bearing a large basket. It was impossible to distinguish any features of the visitor, even if they were male or female! The stranger went up the steps, delivered the package at the door, knocked and quickly ran back down, nearly knocking over the landlady.

“Well, I never!” she cried in protest as the dark figure disappeared into the shadowy streets. She drew back inside, shaking her head and muttering to herself, hoping aloud that the stranger hadn't left a bomb or something. She saw their door open and a hand bring in the mysterious package. The door slammed shut again and she heard the doctor call out. “Sherlock, special delivery for you! And it's heavy!”

 

This new little mystery seemed enough to draw Sherlock out of his funk. He sat up fluidly, peering at the basket his roommate was carrying to him. He scowled in concentration, looking up at his friend's face. He appeared oddly amused for some reason. Did the basket just move? Now that he was sufficiently curious, he stood up to examine it. He lifted the lid... Both men recoiled.

Holmes turned his piercing eyes to the man holding the basket, as though waiting for an explanation. “John, what is that?”

Watson seemed equally taken aback. Still, he could at least say something sensible. “Uh, well, um...it's a...it's a baby, Sherlock.”

“I can see that. What does it want?”

The squirming pink creature opened its eyes and stared up at them. After regarding them for a minute, it immediately started to scream in protest.

“My guess? It wants its mother. And here's another shot in the dark: I think that may have been her leaving her little bundle of joy with the two of us.” They stared at it helplessly for another minute, neither one of them had a clue what to do about it.

John finally set down the basket and took the squalling infant out of it. He held it at arm's length, waving it vaguely in the air as though he saw this done in a movie once. A piece of paper fluttered down and Sherlock picked it up to read:

“To Sherlock Holmes,  
Please look after my baby. I can handle the trouble I'm in, but can't put an innocent child in such a risky situation. You've helped me once before, please help me again. I'll come to collect the child again after the danger has passed. Just don't try to find me or it will come down hard on all of us.”

 

The detective scowled at the paper, lifting it to his nose, holding it to the light to see through it, feeling it with his fingers...”Hmm, tricky. No signature, no name at all. Paper is unremarkable.”

“So we just play nursemaid to some total stranger's baby until she comes back for it? Sherlock, correct me if I'm wrong, but we don't know anything about babies,” John pointed out amid the angry shrieks and squeals of the red-faced child.

“Why don't you? You're a doctor.”

“An army doctor. We didn't have many of these in Afghanistan, you know.” He shifted his grip on the unhappy creature, growing impatient with his friend who didn't seem inclined to do anything about the situation. “I know where they come from, I know they cry and poo all over and have soft spots in their heads. That's about it.”

Sherlock brings his fingers up to his lips thoughtfully, “Internet search?”

“Brilliant,” John agreed as Holmes sat down at his computer and began to type.

“I'm sure there's nothing to it. It's just like keeping plants or a pet. Food, water, someplace for it to sleep...how hard can it be? Look at all of the morons out there who have kids by the dozen. If they can do it, I'm sure two intelligent, educated men can manage.”

Sherlock scrolled through pages of search results, his eyes flicked rapidly over headings, clicking whenever he saw something likely. “Why is that blasted thing still making that noise?!”

“I don't know! You're the one doing the search, you tell me!”

He began reading aloud, raising his voice to a shout to be heard over the crying. “It could be hungry, it could have a dirty diaper, it could be tired, or it could just be royally pissed off!”

“Takes after his father already,” Watson muttered under his breath.

Fortunately, the baby's screams mingled with the men's shouting had drawn Mrs. Hudson's attention. She climbed up the stairs and knocked on the door before letting herself in. “What in the world...?”

“It's a baby, Mrs. Hudson. What does it want?” Sherlock didn't even look up from his screen to address her. “Do you have any experience with these creatures?”

“You were once a 'creature' just like this, Sherlock,” the landlady chided firmly. She plucked it from Watson's arms and held it close, looking quite natural and unalarmed.

“I was not! I refuse to believe that I was ever this impossible.”

His back was still to the rest of the room, so he missed any eye-rolls from his companions. “Oh, here's something. It says I could try playing it some music to calm it.”

Mrs. Hudson was still bouncing the baby soothingly, giving Sherlock another disapproving glance. “You can't call a baby 'it'. Don't you know if it's a boy or a girl?”

“No, I don't see how it makes any difference. It doesn't matter to me in the slightest. Bit early to be imposing gender roles on the little beast, isn't it?”

John was at least a bit more diplomatic. “We think it's just for a couple of days. There's a note to the effect that the mother or father is in some kind of trouble and they won't risk their child's safety.”

“So they brought the poor thing here?!” Mrs. Hudson exclaimed in disbelief. Between the “science experiments” brewing in the kitchen, the gunshot holes in the wall, and the general lunacy typically afoot, she would hardly declare 221B a safe place to hide an infant. Meanwhile, Sherlock had abandoned the computer for his violin and began to play a few warm-up exercises.

“Nothing too heavy, keep it simple. Play something from _The Marriage of Figaro_ ,” John requested.

Sherlock smiled appreciatively at the request, gave a knob a twist and began to play. “I never realized you paid attention to my repertoire.”

John gave a short laugh. “Of course, I do! How can I not, with you playing that thing for hours on end?”

Again, he smiles as though genuinely flattered. “There's a difference between hearing and listening.”

“Seeing and observing.”

“Yes, exactly. I think the baby likes it,” he remarked, flicking his eyes towards the quieting baby in their landlady's arms. “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. We'll take it from here.”

She hesitated, but obeyed. “If you boys need a hand, I've had plenty of experience in my day. Tell you what, I'll run to the store for you and get some necessities. No offense, but I don't think you'd do well shopping for such things alone. Leave it to me.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” John said gratefully, reaching for his wallet and handing her some cash. In return, she handed him the baby and headed out.

Now that it had quieted down, John felt calmer about this new arrangement. He bounced the baby gently. “Now, why don't we see what you are,” he pondered aloud. He laid the child down on the sofa, it squirmed and fussed a little but didn't start crying again as Watson unbuttoned the onsie. He pulled back the diaper, took a quick glance, buttoned it back up and called over. “Sherlock, it's a boy.”

“Congratulations,” Sherlock replied. He stopped playing to examine the baby again, lightly prodding him with his violin bow. “He'll need a name. There wasn't one in the note.”

John shrugged broadly, at a loss. “I don't know how to name a kid!”

“Hamish,” Sherlock declared decidedly, before resuming his playing again. “Your middle name, isn't it? Good, solid name I think.”

A slow smile washed up on John's face, he was quite flattered by the gesture. He'd never liked his middle name, but hearing it attached to the baby made it less distasteful. He then decided to return it in kind. “Hamish Sherlock Holmes,” he christened the child.

The strings whined a little as the pronouncement caused the musician to miss his bowing. Sherlock looked over and trumps him right back. “Hamish Sherlock Watson-Holmes.” He gave a wink as if to suggest _top that!_

“Come on, we're getting silly now. I mean, he's not really ours.”

“He is for now.” Beneath the man's cool demeanor, there was the barest suggestion that he liked hearing their names together. That it somehow made them a family. He thought of their actual blood relatives, estranged parents and siblings, it only disgusted him. Family wasn't always what you were born to, sometimes they were the ones who came along later...and stayed. Sherlock had never given it any further thought than that, though. There didn't need to be any further explanation than that. John was his family, that's all there was to it. He sniggered to himself as he remembered telling John to punch him in the face. “I always hear 'punch me in the face' when you're talking, but it's usually just subtext,” he'd replied. _Yes, that's love_ , he thought contentedly.

“I'm back, dears,” Mrs. Hudson announced as she let herself in. She had a few large grocery bags in her arms and Sherlock quickly relieved her of them. “Oh, thank you. Well, someone seems happier now. Music has charms that soothe the savage beast, they say,” she jokes.

“Yes, Hamish has calmed down. I think he may actually like us,” Watson suggested optimistically.

The landlady looks between her two tenants, grinning away. Seeing those two turn all nurturing over a child did her heart good. They looked like a real family that way. She starts unpacking the bags, handing things out that would be needed soon. A pack of diapers, baby wipes, powder, some more little onesies and bibs, bottles, formula...“Hamish? That's a nice name. Who picked that one?”

“I did,” Sherlock admitted, following her to help put the rest of the things away. Perhaps he was triggered into nesting, because he even went so far as to tidy up his experimental instruments from the table. “Between the two of us, we gave him quite a full name, but I think he can hold it up.”

John brought the baby around for inspection and a formal introduction. “Say hi to Nana Hudson, Hamish. We'll get you a bottle and a clean diaper and tuck you off to bed soon. You were right, Sherlock, this isn't so hard. I can't imagine how people do this alone, though! Can you?”

“You're just lucky they didn't leave a newborn. He looks about four months old. He'll be sleeping through the night, most likely. He might even be able to roll over and hold up his head!” She then spread a clean blanket on the floor, laid the little one on it, and gave them both a lesson on how to change a diaper. Hamish fussed loudly at being changed, but seemed happier in the end after it was all over. Next, she led the men into the kitchen and showed them how to prepare a bottle. She acted as though it was all perfectly normal. The whole time she was demonstrating, she bounced and cooed at the baby in her arms, getting delighted squeals in return.

“Mrs. Hudson, you're a life-saver,” Sherlock declared, unabashedly impressed with her knowledge of such things.

“Well, if you need a hand, I'm right downstairs. Nighty-night, Hamish! Be good for your daddies now.” And with that, she went back downstairs for the night.

John and Sherlock gave a chuckle at her parting remark. “We're daddies,” John repeated humorously. “Little guy's going to turn out just fine.”

They all stayed up together for another hour; Sherlock played some more, switching to his more freeform music for now, while John read aloud to the baby from his blog.

“...and that was the first time I saved Father's life.”

Sherlock grinned over at him, approaching from behind to read over John's shoulder. “Why don't you tell him about the times I've saved yours?”

“What, after you put me in danger in the first place?”

“Or the time I scared the hell out of you on the Baskerville case,” the detective laughed fondly at the memory: his fearless friend cowering in a kennel while he played monstrous sound effects at him! Priceless...

“Watch your language,” John admonished, not liking this trip down memory lane. “You locked me in that lab with god-knows-what, just to run an experiment on me.”

“And you were an excellent subject. You performed perfectly. I thank you for your assistance, it was invaluable to the case.” Sherlock didn't seem at all bothered by his treatment of his friend. It was all in a day's work to him. “Besides, I knew you weren't in any real danger. You were perfectly fine.”

“I didn't know that! Christ!”

“Language.” He simply played on in silence for a few minutes, his tones growing warmer, more melodious. John could usually tell his friend's mood by the music he played. This composition spoke to him of deepest content. The bow purred pleasurably over the strings, drawing out the sweetest sounds. Sherlock's eyes were lightly closed as he played his love, gave it a voice. Soon, little Hamish was fast asleep in his 'daddy's' lap. Without a word, Sherlock opened his eyes and nudged John in the shoulder with his bow, then pointing at the sleeping baby in his arms. He pointed over at the basket, then held up a finger to wait. He laid aside his instrument and went to his closet in his room. He returned with an old shirt. He lined the basket with a white dress shirt, slipped in a small throw pillow, set the baby down in it and wrapped the loose ends around him securely. To finish it, he laid one of his broader scarves across the sleeping baby. It made a perfect little blanket for him! John watched intently as the stoic man tended to the little foundling.

They stepped away, adjourning to the kitchen. “Sherlock, that was beautiful,” Watson whispered fondly. He exhaled heavily, gazing at the tall man before him. “I mean it, that was remarkable.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, absolutely amazing.”

With no words, just a comfortable smile, Sherlock drew the other man close, tracing his face with a growing smile. Neither of them said anything; there had been nothing to lead up to this. Just long months of togetherness. More than enough for them to know that they both wanted this, both felt this way. A threadbare layer of decorum had kept them from acting on it thus far. All they needed was a small push. 

 

A few hours later, Sherlock woke up to the sound of Hamish crying. _So much for him sleeping through the night._ Footsteps came down the stairs...microwave whirred for a minute, then beeped. A soft creak and a sigh. Sherlock crept out and found John half-asleep with the baby in his arms, feeding him. He watched from the shadows until the bottle was empty. John turned the baby over his shoulder and patted his back, wiped his little face, and put him back to bed. John then stood up and turned to go back upstairs, only to find Sherlock staring at him with strangely soft eyes. He glided up to him and drew a hand down his face.

“Now come to bed,” he murmured against the man's forehead.

They nestle into bed together, both of them were just quietly shocked at how normal it seemed. It was like being in some wonderful dream. They cuddled together, murmuring goodnights, and soon drifted off.

 

A week passed and no one came for the child. A month later found Hamish still in Sherlock's and John's care. They actually decided to go to Scotland Yard about it, and provided Sherlock was acting as an adjunct to the police, he was given temporary custody rights to the boy, until his real parents came to claim him. It seemed an agreeable arrangement for all. Two months later, they'd begun to think that their boy's parents would never come. They both found they didn't really care if they ever returned. In many ways, Hamish was the cure to Sherlock's boredom. Even when he wasn't on a case, he was fully occupied; his interest and attention were constantly being held by his son. John would often watch the two from across the room with a look of humor on his face. This child of theirs, their son, was a constant investigation to the slightly-mad detective. He'd heard so many horror stories of parents being drained completely dry by their young children. Funny, Hamish seemed to revitalize Sherlock by the exact means that child-rearing exhausted normal people. It certainly suited him, the irregular sleeping and eating schedule, the unpredictable moods. They complimented each other perfectly. Sherlock took to fatherhood like a fish to water.

One year later...  
A woman knocked on their front door, hovering on the step uncomfortably. John peered down at her from the window. “Looks like a client. Love affair, from the looks of her. Keeps pacing.”

Sherlock was on the floor, playing with their increasingly active little boy. There was a variety of toys all over the floor, as well as colorful scrawls of early attempts at artistry. “You're learning,” he observed, sounding quite pleased that he'd managed to rub off on him so well. Sherlock climbed back up on the couch and picked up the paper while John typed away at his blog. The woman is shown in by Mrs. Hudson, getting the boy's attention.

“Nana!” Hamish called out, holding up his hands at her. The landlady swooped down and picked him up into a hug.

“Oh, how's my big boy? Want me to take him down while you're with your client?”

“No, we're all right. Thank you, though,” John answered, closing his computer to welcome in their visitor. Mrs. Hudson then gave Hamish a kiss and then set him back down on his play mat. A moment later, the boy began to cry, holding up one of his toy cars in distress.

Sherlock got back down on the floor with him to assess the situation. “Well, what's the matter?” Hamish showed his father the car, its wheel had come off. “I see. What do you plan to do about it? Hmm?” Then, guiding the boy's hands with his own, he popped the wheel back in place and gave it a spin to show it was all right. “Always look for a solution, Hamish. Crying about it doesn't help. There's almost always a solution to be found.” He kissed him, ruffled his hair, and stood to receive their guest. “Hello. Excuse us.”

Hamish tugged on Sherlock's pant leg, looking up at the imposing figure. “Fa-der, boom?” He asked.

“Boom? Oh, well, all right.” And without another word, he whipped out a gun and fired it at the wall, making the boy squeal and clap. John shook his head, unable to hide his smile at these antics. They snigger comfortably together. Sherlock then showed the gun to their visitor, as if it just dawned on him that this might look bad. “Just blanks, see? It's fine. You think I'd have a loaded gun in the house with my son running around? Tsk.”

John scooped the boy up and brought him over. “Won't you have a seat? I'll clear up a bit here. You know what it's like having a little one, I'm sure.” Doing good work for a one-handed job, he made room on the sofa for them, then sat down with Hamish in his lap, ready to take notes. The woman sank into her seat, staring at the child in wonderment.

“Daddy, game?” Hamish asked now, getting knowing smiles from his parents. 

“Will you go to bed nicely if I say yes?” He nodded eagerly. “All right. It's one of his favorites. Takes after Father already,” John explained, giving Sherlock a fond look. He handed him over, grinning broadly at his son showing off. “This should just take a second, miss.”

“Now, Hamish, see and observe,” Sherlock instructed as he held him on his knee. “What do you see? John, do translate so our client doesn't think it's just me being clever.”

The boy gazed at the stranger for a moment before laying his chubby hands on her purse. He threw himself forward on his father's lap to look at her shoes next, then sat back up. “Pursh,” he says, stroking the shiny gold buckle, tracing the pair of C's emblazoned on it. Then he found a rather badly frayed strap. “Boke. An' 'er shoes,” he added. Sure enough, her rather stylish shoes showed signs of being rather worse for the wear. They'd once been quite fashionable but the heels had been mended at least twice and the strap on one was almost completely threadbare near the buckle.

The woman stared at the three of them. John waited for the verdict, eager to 'translate' for his son's observations. He looked so proud of him! Sherlock looked pleased as well, almost shaking from suppressed laughter.

“Wady uz wich...not anymore. Is 'pecial. Tings. Wanna look all smart. Big day.”

John drew a breath. “He's deduced you were once a lady of considerable means but have fallen on hard times recently. However, you've saved a few treasures from your past for special occasions when you wish to dress to impress. Your business in London is therefore a very big day for you.”

“Amazing!”

Sherlock looked at her intensely, “Was he right?”

“All of it, that's remarkable!”

He stood, handing the boy back to John, giving them both a kiss. “Now, it's naptime for my little assistant.”

They started to go upstairs to the nursery when Hamish shouted “No!”

John was unperturbed. “No what?”

“No nap!”

“Hamish, we had an agreement.”

“No nap!”

“Hamish Sherlock Watson-Holmes, you know perfectly well that that doesn't work.”

“No!!”

“Say 'no' all you like, it doesn't change anything. Now, if you're good, I'll read you a story before I put you to bed.”

Hamish considered this offer. “Daddy 'tory, peez?”

“If you can behave. Honestly, you're just like your father. Trying for _how_ many years to get him to sleep normally...”

Downstairs, they heard the door close. The lady stared up at the stairway, wholly impressed. “He's so smart! It's like he can reason already! I had no idea children could do that.”

“If you begin at an early age, it's easy. Teaching a child to think is the most important thing any parent can do. Even the pediatrician says Hamish is advanced for his age.” It was impossible for Sherlock to keep the pride from his voice.

The stranger then took on a more sly expression. “So, whose is he?”

Looking rather confused by the question, Sherlock answered, “He's ours. He's John's and mine.”

“I mean, biologically? Is he your partner's--”

“Husband,” he corrected briskly. “And you are certainly not from the area.” He stood up and began pacing. “As to whose he is biologically, the answer is neither. We adopted him, but he's still our son, just the same.”

All innocence leaves the woman's face as she stood as well. “You mean someone left him with you,” she corrected, making Sherlock's eyes widen in horror. 

He pointed at her, then slowly brought a hand to his mouth as though he was going to be sick. He sank back down into a chair, suddenly trembling. He gulped hard, trying to catch his breath as he processed what this visit was about. He shook his head in pitiful denial, reeling as his world fell apart around him.

“I'd almost forgotten,” he forced a laugh. “When you didn't come back, we just...figured he was ours. We had papers drawn up and everything, started saving for his school already. God...this is going to kill John.”

Right on cue, John came downstairs again. He held a finger to his lips for quiet. “So, what's the case? Sherlock, you look terrible! What's wrong?” His arms flew around his husband's shaking shoulders, looking at their 'client' with confusion.

“Sit...sit down, John. You'll need to sit down.” Sherlock quavered. Quietly, he obeyed, wondering what sort of bombshell he was about to receive. “This...woman...has been here before. You wouldn't recognize her, of course. She...John, she's...dammit, hold me!”

John sank back into his seat, letting Sherlock slouch down and rest his head on his shoulder. He pulled the dark-haired man close, stroking him lovingly. “Darling...darling, whatever it is, we'll--”

“John, she's come for Hamish! She's his...” he refuses to say the word 'mother'. “She brought him here. Fitting,” he flutters madly. “Total stranger giveth, total stranger taketh away.” They clung to each other as their hearts broke together. Each of them was imagining the long list of “nevers” that this woman brought with her. They'd never put their son to bed again, play deductions or other games, never see him off to school, teach him to ride a bike or train him in hand-to-hand combat, never see him grow up, never see their son again.

“He won't even remember us,” John murmured defeatedly. “Or his Nana. And, they just adore each other, Sherlock! This isn't fair. It was only supposed to be for a few days and it turned into a year!”

Sherlock straightened up to look their son's mother over. He doesn't just give her a passing glance, either. He delves deeply, scanning for any telling flaws or signs of danger. _Roughened hands, chipped nails, obviously works with them. Recently started needing to. Polished nails, lingering sign of vanity from better days. Home job, though, not at a salon, smudges, not used to doing it herself. So...fallen from affluence to working class, but came back for the child she abandoned now?!? Much worse a year ago? Is this an improvement?_ He also made a mental note to set the Homeless Network on her. He scanned on, searching for vices: needle marks, stained fingers, hand tremors...but she showed no signs that would alarm him. Not so much as a scratch-off lottery ticket in her pockets.

“This was poor manners on my part, but I don't believe I have your name.”

“Heather. Heather Adams.”

“Are you married, Heather Adams?”

“I was. Not anymore. No father in the picture, if that's what you're asking.”

“I see. Are you getting by all right? What I'm getting at is that John and I are more than capable of providing a good home.”

“Please,” John begged. “We love him. He's ours. Hamish is our son. He's happy here, we're a family.” Sherlock hugged him tighter, rubbing his back and softly shushing him, but he continued. “You never came back! Never gave us a way to contact you or any idea of when to expect you. No. I'm prepared to fight this. Sherlock, we have our rights! This person just abandoned him and walked away. We took him in, took care of him for all this time, he's ours! Inspector Lestrade is his flipping godfather!”

“She has rights, too, as his biological mother,” Sherlock reminded him calmly.

“Right, so she can visit, I'll allow that. But to come barging in here to take Hamish away, where we'll probably never see him again...know if he's all right, if he's happy...”

“Unfortunately, with the laws regarding...families like ours being still somewhat nebulous, it will be all too easy for her to take him. I suppose the best we can hope for is to remain on good terms and hopefully remain in the picture.” He punctuates this thought by handing Miss Adams a small silver-framed family picture of the three of them. She looked at it, her expression becoming a touch guilty. Sherlock flicked his piercing eyes at the young woman, silently pleading for that much. “You said Hamish doesn't have a father. He has two. We want very much to remain in his life. It's not unreasonable.”

“And believe me, he knows unreasonable,” John added with a half a smile.

Heather handed the photo back. “I don't think that would be wise. Just think how confusing that would be for him to understand, to explain! No, I...I don't think so. It's just not...appropriate.”

“Of course, nothing's more confusing or inappropriate than explaining to a child that people love him.”

Heather was gathering her thoughts for a moment, then conceded: “Look, you can send him cards for his birthday, little stuff like that. I'll send you his school pictures if you like.”

“Oh, good, John. See, not all is lost. We'll see our son through photographs, and we're graciously allowed to send him birthday cards—what a ridiculous concept. After what we've done. Drop him off, pick him up, just like going to the dry cleaners! How very selfish we must seem to her, my dear. The nerve we have! You'd almost think we were _people!_ Help me sort this out, I love using you as a sounding-board, you know. What would you deduce about someone who leaves her child on a stranger's doorstep, disappears for over a year, then returns out of the blue to whisk her son away without a second thought?”

“I can't say exactly, mainly because I don't want our son picking up such language,” John replied honestly. Sherlock chuckled darkly, teasing a grin out of his husband. John turns back to their unwelcome guest. “In addition to his school savings, we started a trust fund for him which will be his when he turns eighteen. It's in his name, no one else can touch it. Should be enough to get him started somewhere. He has a few of my colleagues willing to take him on as an intern at St. Bart's if he chooses to follow in my footsteps. Lestrade promised to consider him for the Yard if he turned out more like Sherlock. Plus, whatever happens, Mycroft already has a file on him an inch thick, so...even if you keep us away from him...” John trailed off with a genuine smile, reaffirmed by his recitation that his son will be provided for no matter what.

“We have eyes and ears all over, Miss Adams. We'll hear of him,” Sherlock promised.

Heather looked between the two men, completely amazed. “All that...for a child who's not even yours?”

“Hamish is ours, and we want what's best for our son. Even if you never let us be in the same room as him again, we'll be sure to let him know how much we love him. Just promise you'll keep him safe. Take good care of him. Promise?”

Heather nodded, feeling real sympathy for these men now. They'd taken her son into their home and their hearts. All they wanted was what any parent wants for their child. “I have a decent job, and a safe place to live. It's not much, but it's home. It's gotten better lately, actually. I'll be able to support us both.

John and Sherlock were both understandably still upset, but were better prepared to face the matter at hand. They didn't like it, but they can at least take comfort in knowing that their child will be watched over even in their absence. Their vast networks will definitely be useful to keep tabs.

“What are you going to do about his name?” Sherlock asked suddenly. “Will you let him keep it, or does he have another name...one he was called when he was born?”

Sitting back thoughtfully, the young woman fiddles with her handbag strap. She remembered the day her son was born, holding him for the first time, those precious early months...that painful day of leaving him on a strange doorstep. “His name is Sean. Sean Richard Adams.”

The two men exchanged looks, shrugging, clearly liking the name they'd given him better. “I'm going to give you fair warning: we'll be in touch. You might not see us, but we have people out there. You're not under any sort of threat. Actually, some may be able to help you. You're under our spotlight, our network. Understand?”

Heather gulped and nodded. She hadn't expected there to be so much involved in reclaiming her son. “He'll be fine.”

Sherlock flicks his card at her with lightning speed. “If you need us, call us. Don't hesitate. He will be all right, if we have anything to say about it. It's the only reason we're surrendering him willingly.”

Then John went upstairs to get Hamish. In the nursery, he leaned over the crib and scooped up his son, holding him close as tears welled up at last. “Listen to me, Hamish. I love you. You're my son and I love you. You...you have to go away somewhere, and unfortunately Father and Daddy can't come with you. We may not ever see each other again, but we love you. We're your family, and you're in this family for life. We're all looking out for you. You're going to be all right. Your mother might not be able to play deductions or know your favorite stories, but she wants you, too. She'll take good care of you. Father's network, and Uncle Mycroft, and Greg, and Molly and Nana and everyone are all around you. You're not alone, you'll never be alone, my son. We may be together again someday. It's...it's going to be fine, Hamish. God, I never thought I'd like that name so much! I don't care what your mother calls you, you're my Hamish Sherlock, and Father would say the same. Look, you're...you're not going to remember Father and me. You'll grow up and be happy and healthy...you'll live without us nearby. Oh, you are _so precious_ to me! I never want to let you go, but it's got to be for the best. It's got to be. Don't be afraid, darling. Just be good. Be you. My own dear little one.” A shadow fell across them and there stood Sherlock, quietly weeping. He'd heard John's every word. He drew them both into his arms and held them close, treasuring these last few moments as a family. They just stood there, hugging and crying.

“You'll be good, right? Father loves you, darling. You'll be all right. If you ever need us, Uncle Mycroft will alert us and we'll be there as quick as we can.”

“Mycoft a poopyhead,” their son wisely observed.

“Yes!” Sherlock laughed, “Yes, he is. But he can be useful. He'll find you and tell us, all right? And here...” He wrapped his favorite blue scarf around the boy's neck and shoulders, it hung down behind him like a cape. “You hang onto this for me, will you?”

“Otay.” The worried-looking toddler looked calmer now from his parents' reassurances. He was hugged and kissed by the two of them, not sure what was going on but latching onto that this was bye-bye to Father and Daddy for now.

 

And so, the years passed. True to their planning, Sherlock's network successfully kept tabs on the boy. In addition to the “requisite” school pictures they received every year, their more reliable sources provided a more complete portrait.

Rolling his eyes the whole time, it had often fallen to Mycroft to “play Santa Claus”, leaving special items for Hamish that his mother would have been unlikely to provide or allow. A working chemistry set, miniature weaponry, books on varieties of subjects, including a printed edition of Sherlock's own “Science of Deduction”. His mother was also at a loss for why her son would have seemingly endless good luck at school. True, he was a bright and promising lad, but it seemed that whichever way he turned, doors there thrown open to him. The day after he started primary school, he found the library was vastly improved overnight. Advanced classes were suddenly offered that had not been available to previous generations. Sports equipment and the playground were magically updated. Through it all, he received a steady stream of cards and letters from “SH & JWH” Letters of sound advice, encouragement, cryptic puzzles...all signed with love. They even sent him cds of Sherlock's violin-playing, which the boy would listen to every night to help him sleep. The music made him feel inexplicably safe and secure, vague memory-dreams of a father's arms around him. Every few weeks, mysterious packages of baked goods appeared from a mysterious “Nana”, usually following either a major success or setback. Always on time for celebration or commiseration. Once, after a fight with the schoolyard bully, Hamish discovered his antagonist had been sent an ominous message reading “Lay a hand on my nephew again, you little savage, and you will pay for it with your teeth. --MH” A few times the boy had been seriously ill in the hospital, but his mother never received a bill. Additional medicines also found their way to their mailbox when needed. On their periodic trips into London, it seemed as though strangers on the street, mostly homeless people, seemed to know him and watch him with interest. On one such visit, he'd become separated from his mother and was hopelessly lost. A homeless girl in her twenties found him instantly and guided him through the labyrinthine streets of the rough neighborhood back to his anxious mother. She fingered the well-worn scarf around the boy's neck, giving him a look of recognition. “Your dads say hi. I'll tell them I saw you,” the girl whispered to him quickly before disappearing. It was like he was living under the care of very real guardian angels. Years passed...

 

A woman and her ten-year-old son stood on the doorstep of 221B. She rang the bell, feeling strangely apprehensive. When she was shown in, the landlady stared at the boy, half-reaching out to him but pulling herself back in time. She scurried back to her kitchen before she made a fool of herself, letting them find their way upstairs.

The boy froze at the top of the step...“Mum, that music! It's the same as my collection!”

“That's right, dear. Go on in. I'll be right behind you.”

He pushed the door open and felt his heart leap! A lingering smell of gunpowder hung in the air. It reminded him of something...

“I've been here before,” he announced, drawing the attention of the violinist and his audience. Both men stare at him.

“My god! John, look! John, it's our son!” Sherlock gasped.

John jumped to his feet, knocking over his chair in his haste. “Blimey, he still has your scarf!” It took all of his self-control not to spring at the boy and take him into his arms. Sherlock read this impulse on him as plain as day.

“Now, just everyone stay calm. Don't frighten him, John. Let him decide when to make the approach.” The tall, dark figure stood perfectly still, as though observing an animal in the wild. “Now, can you tell me your name?” His hands twitched, he clenched them shut over and over to stop himself from reaching for him as well.

Looking between the strange men, the boy looked rather confused. “Did you just say I'm your son? Then you'd know my name.”

Sherlock grinned, drumming his fingers against each other. “I know both of your names, I just wanted to know which one you'd call yourself here.” He stepped towards him, kneeling on the floor. “Are you Sean...or are you Hamish?”

“What did you call me?”

“Your Dad and I called you Hamish Sherlock Watson-Holmes. I named you after him, he named you after me, and we splatted our last names together,” he explains, clapping his hands in demonstration.

“I have two dads?”

John crept forward, wanting to touch him so badly. “That's right. Your mother didn't think it was a good idea for us to be around. Believe me, we both wanted to. More than anything.”

“You...named me after the both of you. You're...! You're the real _them?!_ No joke? You're _the_ Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson?! I've read about you! You're famous!” He looked from one to the other, enthralled! “I'm your son?!”

“In a manner of speaking,” John explained. “Listen, this might sound weird, but can I...? Please, can I...” he trailed off in a whisper. Sherlock hung back beside him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “We've missed you so much. Can we hug you? Just once?”

The boy looked over his shoulder at his mother, who was lurking in the background. She gave him a nod. “Sure, okay.”

John went first, seizing him with such a rush of emotion that it took them both by surprise. He hugged him tightly, kissing his cheek, sniffling and weeping at this wonderful reunion.

“I know you,” Hamish whispered as his eyes spilled as well. Those half-remembered dreams of a father's loving presence flooded to the surface and he held on just as tightly, gasping. “I have a dad, I have two dads! Why...why didn't Mum let me see you?”

John let him go, and Sherlock knelt down to take him in his arms as well. “My boy...I promise we were always nearby. You got our letters, our gifts. You were very closely monitored.” Sherlock told him, ruffling his son's hair once again.

Breathing his father's scent, the boy felt it trigger a memory. The burning smell of gunpowder clung to him today, he'd evidently been in a mood. “I remember this. I remember...boom?”

Sherlock released him with a wide, manic grin. “Boom? If you insist.” And he fired his gun at the wall, hitting the yellow smiley face every time.

Hamish laughed out loud, waving his hand to clear the air. “You guys are crazy! This is amazing! Can I come here again sometimes?” He turned around to face his mother. “Mum, can I? Please?”

Heather Adams looked from her son's pleading expression, to the two men who are holding each other in the background. “Those were blanks, right?”

“Uh, of course!” Sherlock replies with an angelic grin. “Only an...irresponsible maniac would think of firing off real bullets in the house.”

Letting herself in, she took a seat on the couch like she had all those years ago, once again determining her son's fate. “You were behind it all, weren't you? His school, the special classes...that time his science camp was magically paid for overnight. He...he never got cards from you on his birthday, but he'd get them a few months later.” She looked truly touched by this, knowing that they marked his birthday as the day he was first brought to Baker Street. “Thanks for using the name I gave him. I suppose he could come and visit. When you're not busy, of course.”

“Really?! I can come?!” the boy asked, looking almost as overjoyed as his fathers who were hugging and crying and trying not to start jumping up and down.

“He's back, he's really back!” John gasped. “Oh, my prayers are answered, my son's come home!”

“Why now, all of a sudden?” Sherlock asked.

Here, Heather looked distinctly guilty. “I'll be honest. I half-expected you both to forget all about him after a while. You never did. You kept in touch, somehow managed to know everything about him, based on what you sent for Christmas and birthdays. I guess I just realized that you weren't going to forget about him or disappear. You've been his parents as much as you've been able to. I guess you deserve to be together. It couldn't hurt.”

This answer was satisfactory enough. Sherlock took his son by the shoulders and looked down at him. “We'll have to see if you can still play deductions. This is...incredible! This is better than...better than a triple homicide with fresh bloodstains on the floor!”

Heather looked rather appalled at the comparison, but John stepped in to explain. “That's near the top of the list of his favorite things. When he compared me to a triple homicide, I knew he was in love.”

Behind them, the door opened once again, admitting Mrs. Hudson into the room. She crossed to the middle of the living room with a tray of freshly-baked cookies and set them on the coffee table. John points her out to Hamish. “That's your Nana. She lives here, too.” She simply waved at him silently, too happy to speak. She gave him a cookie and gave his cheek a pat.

This was beginning to be too much for the boy. For someone raised with a single mother with no extended family, to suddenly find himself the crown prince of this strange but loving clan, it was overwhelming to the point of tears.

John looked on, thinking along the same lines. “All we need now is for Uncle Mycroft to drop in.”

“Are you sure you're all right, Sean? With this?” Heather asked. He nodded, sniffling and wiping his nose on his sleeve. “Look, I'll run home and make up an overnight bag for you. You can spend the weekend. Call me if you need anything. All right?”

“Yeah, yeah I'll be fine.”

Heather looked around the room, then she shouldered her purse and headed out. She wasn't worried about leaving her son with these people. His family would look after him.


End file.
